Kids
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Gone but not forgotten.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

My thanks to Owl and Cheri for beta support.

**Author's Note: **In "The Prince of Fat City", episode 9 of the first season, Judge Brandt—a colleague of Hardcastle's—persuades Milt to take in a soon to be released 16-year-old miscreant who goes by the moniker "Death Ray" Thomas. The kid was the former president of the Hub City Cobras, but he's been impeached by his fellow gangbangers because he won't fork over the tapes they stole from a psychiatrist's office. The gang wants to blackmail all of the doc's patients. Death Ray (aka Harold Eugene) wants to limit their victims to a shifty businessman named Shelcroft and his accessory after the fact—Judge Brandt. Are you with me so far? Okay. Shelcroft wants the tapes back and the kid killed. Mark finagles Death Ray into a winner take all b-ball game—the Coyote for the tapes. He wins. Death Ray retrieves the tapes, double-deals his old gang, and keeps a rendezvous where Shelcroft and his henchmen are out-fought and out-driven by Milt and Mark. In the end, and for reasons that aren't quite clear, Harold goes back in the slammer, accompanied by vague promises that he can come back and stay with the guys when he's finally released.

**Kids**

by L.M. Lewis

It was the morning after Harold's departure back to the juvenile detention center. Mark was out on the side lawn, studying what remained of the hedge Harold had had a whack at with the clippers. Hardcastle hadn't seen it yet, and Mark was thinking maybe a mercy killing might be the best thing in that regard. The bush, not Hardcastle, of course—though after the last couple of days that 'of course' wasn't exactly coming naturally to McCormick.

Too late already. He heard the summons from the front steps and even before he'd lifted his head to acknowledge it, the judge had spotted him and was striding over.

"Got some scrambled eggs in there. You coming or what?" the man asked, by which time the ragged shrub was within his visual range. He gave it a double take and halted in his tracks.

"What the hell did you do to _that_?"

"Not me—Death Ray."

"Harold," Hardcastle insisted.

"Nope, when he was doing _that_ he was definitely Death Ray."

"And you were supervising him, weren'tcha?"

"Uh-uh." Mark shook his head emphatically. "I was just supposed to keep him from going over the wall, not give him horticulture lessons."

"Well," the judge squinted at what was left of the bush, "geez, you could've at least taken the clippers away when you saw him doing this."

"You mean _disarm_ him?" Mark crossed his arms decisively. "I don't think you pay me enough to do stuff like that, Judge. As it was I got beat up, um . . ." He frowned. He uncrossed his arms and looked down at his fingers, counting silently. He finally looked up again and said exasperatedly, "_Three_ times. And that's not even counting that one-on-one game between me and him, which practically constituted assault and battery all by itself."

The judge cocked his head, still squinting. "Maybe you can trim it up a little on this side." He pointed to a nearly bald section. "Shape it somehow."

"You mean like a topiary?" Mark inquired blandly. "I'm thinking it looks a little like Louis the Sixteenth."

Hardcastle moved the squint over to fix on him.

"_After_ the guillotine, ya know?" Mark smiled grimly. "Look, let's just dig it out. One bush is a small price to pay for bagging a big time hood like Shelcroft, isn't it?"

"I s'pose," Hardcastle grudged reluctantly. "Maybe a little fertilizer—"

"There's been _way_ too much of that around here the last couple of days," Mark snorted as he turned on his heel and headed for the house. "Come on, those eggs must be getting cold."

00000

The eggs were tepid and so was the mood in the kitchen where they ate them.

"Seems kinda quiet here, with the kid gone," Hardcastle ventured, after another unusually lengthy lull in the conversation.

"Yeah," Mark replied absently, "nice, isn't it?"

"Hmm, well," the judge shoveled in another mouthful and barely swallowed before he continued, "I don't mind a little ruckus now and then—keeps things lively."

Mark gave him a jaundiced look. "That's 'cause you were only out fifty bucks and one just-barely black eye. I'm the one who took all the collateral damage . . . and I'm gonna have Benny take a look at the Coyote. I think taking the scenic route over in Griffith bent one of the struts."

The judge paused in forking up more eggs long enough to nod.

Silence again. Mark might've been waiting for an argument. It seemed that way. The younger man finally muttered, almost to himself, "I dunno, I can't figure out why anybody in their right mind would want one."

"Want what?"

"A _kid_," Mark said, with disbelieving emphasis. "Not me. Not ever. Look at Death Ray—"

"Harold," Hardcastle corrected automatically.

"Whatever. Here he is, only _sixteen_ and already retired from leading a bunch of gun-toting thugs. He thinks Q is an Ivy League school and can't wait to go there."

"That was a couple of days ago," Hardcastle pointed out. "I think we've turned him around."

"_We_?"

"Yeah, you and me. Why'd you think I wanted him to bunk with you?"

"So when he went after me with the street piece you'd hear the shot and have a chance to get away?" Mark proffered.

"Nah, I was pretty sure he wasn't gonna to do nothin' like that." Hardcastle looked down at his eggs thoughtfully for a moment then cocked his head at McCormick. "I was thinkin' if I put him out there in the gatehouse, that meant I trusted him—didn't need to keep an eye on him every minute, see?"

"No, _I_ got to keep an eye on him—and we both know how well _that_ turned out." Mark pointed to his own still-blackened left one.

"Yeah, well, I didn't know he still had all that outstanding business going on. My mistake," the judge added quietly, "trusting Brandt, I mean."

The admission had been issued in a quiet matter-of-fact tone that took Mark aback.

"Well, okay," he conceded, "who woulda guessed that one of your old judicial pals was setting you up like that. Good thing he picked the wrong judge, Judge."

Mark sat back, apparently finished playing with his food. He seemed to be thinking about what he'd just said and finally concluded, "He probably didn't have a lot of choice in the matter, huh?"

Hardcastle raised an eyebrow.

"I mean," Mark paused, as if looking for the right words, "well, I don't think there's all that many judges out there who would let a kid like Death—"

"Harold."

Mark sighed. "Okay—_Harold_—into their home . . . or even his _gatehouse_," he tacked on, with just a shade of asperity.

Hardcastle shrugged. "I guess I figured it wasn't too late for him. Smart kid like that, had some tough breaks—"

"No family. A dad who was a bum."

"Yeah," Hardcastle nodded. "Stuff like that."

"And you can tell all that from looking at a file?"

"Nah," the judge squinted slightly, "a file's just pieces of paper. I'd say it's more like a gut instinct . . . and, anyway, sometimes I've been wrong."

This second admission in almost as few minutes took Mark even further aback. He shook his head in accumulated disbelief and said, "But you keep on trying, huh?"

"Yup," Hardcastle said, with a very knowing smile. "And once on a while I get lucky."


End file.
